


Gentlemen: Private Matters

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder accidentally unearths more that he can handle from Skinner's past. The apparent end of their relationship.





	Gentlemen: Private Matters

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Gentlemen: Private Matters by the cat with green wings

Story summary: M/Sk. Mulder accidentally unearths more that he can handle from Skinner's past. The apparent end of their relationship.   
Things to know about this story: 1) All characters belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions. Lyrics from Gentlemen belong to The Afghan Whigs and BMI music. No copyright infringement intended. 2) Warning: This is a slash story and thus contains graphic depictions of two men having sex. Minors and those who don't like such things hit delete now. Moreover, this story contains both physical and emotional violence so even if you regularly consume slash you may want to reconsider reading further. 3) In this world Sharon Skinner is nowhere to be seen. While I'm at it I'd like to say Krycek still has both arms and TFWID never aired, although these things have nothing to do with the following story. 4) Many thanks are due to Cathy Lee for beta reading, supplying serious grammatical first-aid, and often supplying me with appropriate wording. Many thanks to Lyrica for beta reading, reading epic e-mails and general hand-holding.

* * *

Gentlemen: Private Matters   
by the cat with green wings  
       <>

Feel it now and don't resist,   
this time the anger's better than the kiss.   
I must admit when so inclined,   
I tend to lose it than confront my mind.  
                         "Debonair" Gentlemen  
                         --The Afghan Whigs 

Fox Mulder lay diagonally across the four-poster bed, taking his time regaining consciousness in the silent apartment. He could feel the early-morning sun filtering warmly through the wooden blinds slatting the tall windows. Walter had left before sun-up to get some work done at the office. His habit of getting paperwork done in the peace of the empty Hoover building on Sundays had not been broken by the newer habit of allowing his lover to sleep over on weekends. He smelled coffee wafting up from the kitchen below, and inwardly smiled at the niceties accompanying a steady lover. Well, as steady as three weeks would allow.

The relationship had sprung up quickly and unexpectedly, but neither of the men questioned it. They had a tacit understanding; they would simply accept the solace they found in one another's bodies and when that was exhausted they would go their separate ways. 

Finally admitting he was awake, he sighed, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and hopped to the floor, lightly scratching at the waistband of his cotton boxers as he descended the stairs.

After glancing through a slightly mauled Sunday Post over toast and jam, Mulder padded back upstairs to dress. He planned to put on yesterday's clothes and drive home to do some catching up on work himself. Idly, he wondered if he and Walter would be able to sustain their fling long enough so that he would actually be given his own shelf in the armoire. 

Rounding a corner in the hallway, he paused in front of the closed door. Walter's study. So far he had managed to restrain his impulses to find out more about the very private Assistant Director. He had neither asked questions nor gone looking through his lover's belongings. But, his mind wheedled, the study was the only room in the apartment that he hadn't even seen inside. Mulder knew Walter wouldn't be back for another hour or two. He wasn't even conscious of making the decision to enter the study when he found himself on the other side of the door. Dimly heard the snick of the doorknob being released behind him.

The room held no great surprises: a desk, a chair, and a computer covered with a plastic sheet that on closer inspection proved to be a dusty Vic-20 touting 8k of memory. He let out a low, ironic whistle, and was startled by how loud it sounded in the silent apartment. Some anonymous, low-maintenance plant sat in the corner and a collection of photos hung on the wall. He moved in to have a better look. The photos were old black and whites of young men mugging for the camera. With a start he realized these were all men in Walter's company when he had toured in Vietnam. 

There, in the center photo were three men, no, he corrected himself, * boys,* shirtless and barefoot. All three held their rifles across the back of their shoulders, one hand gripping the butt and one the muzzle. 

The boy in the middle was Walter. He had a full head of hair and no glasses, but that was definitely Fox Mulder's lover staring back out at him across time. His mouth was the giveaway. While the other two smiled broadly, with all the bravado and swagger inherent to nineteen year-olds, Skinner's mouth remained in an implacable line. If one didn't know better, it would seem less an indication of character than a reaction to the glaring sunshine that Walter seemed to be squinting at. But Mulder did know better. 

He let his gaze travel from his lover's face to the shirtless body, noting the differences in what the picture showed and what he had been pressed against only some hours ago. The breadth of the shoulders was the same, but the girth was not. Leather sheathed dog tags lay flat against the breastbone. Young Walter Skinner's thick canvas pants drooped low on his hips. He reflected that the pubescent lines of Walter's waist looked like his own did now. The dark line of hair running between navel and pubis that he had traced with his tongue only last night, was invisible in the picture. He reached out with a finger outlining on the surface of the glass where the hairline would evolve over the next ten years or so. 

He turned from the wall to face a closet that he hadn't noticed upon entering. Crossing the room he tugged both doors. They glided open noiselessly in their tracks. A few empty metal hangers stirred in the breeze, pinging against each other gently. His pulse quickened as he ran his hands across the numerous neatly stored Marine uniforms that hung in plastic. It hadn't occurred to him that of course Walter would still have his old Marine clothes tucked away somewhere. 

A row of perfectly polished shoes and boots sat along the length of the closet floor. Folded olive tee-shirts and cammo pants lay in neat stacks on the shelf above his head. He pulled the uniforms that hung from the closet bar apart and to the side, examining them. Several pairs of sharply creased tan slacks and shirts were paired together. He reached farther back into the closet and found a heavy olive drab flight jacket covered with patches that reversed to hi-vis orange. He made a mental promise to himself to try and get Walter into that jacket some time in the near future. He began groping blindly into the far reaches of the closet and grasped something heavy. He curled his finger around the hanger and hauled it out. Unlike the others, this garment was encased in a zippered black bag. Mulder tugged down the zipper. Formal dress blues covered with showy braid and brass. A cap and white gloves were clipped with the woolen suit. 

Laying the uniform across the desk, he pulled flaps of the garment bag wider for a better look. He ran his fingers across to rough texture of the cloth, the cold metal of the buttons. He leaned in. Mothball smell. He pressed closer. Beyond the acridity of the camphor there was a faint odor of sweat and musk that he had come to know well over the past month. Yet it was different somehow. His lover's scent had changed over the years. It had become less sharp, more woodsy. Drier--if that made any sense. 

Something poked painfully into his thigh. He pulled aside the fabric to reveal a decorative scabbard. Carefully untying the sash that bound the hilt to the hanger, he tested its weight in his hands. He walked back to face the picture of the young Skinner. He assumed the same pose, pressing the length of the sheathed sword across his bare back as the boys in the picture did with their rifles. From the grip, the red sash dangled lazily to the floor. He studied the picture further and repositioned his feet to better emulate Walter's stance. He cocked his head at the same angle and puffed out his chest, feeling his boxers shift and hang lower at the new position. He glanced around for a mirror to get a better look at himself. Seeing none, Mulder grabbed the uniform off Walter's desk and headed to the bedroom. First stripping off his boxers, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the scratchy dress pants with the red stripe running down the legs. He stood and slipped the jacket over his bare chest, then, adding the hat, he moved in front of the large standing mirror.

Even though Mulder matched Skinner in height, the extra material to account for Walter's bigger frame was significant enough to make the cuffs of the jacket fall to his fingertips and the hem of the pants to pool around the slender man's ankles. Drawing the light sword, he revolved it so that it caught the morning light and paused to evaluate his reflection. He liked what he saw. Already the heavy material was beginning to make him too warm. The day was heating up and the air in the bedroom was becoming thicker, more static. What, a minute earlier, was an even roughness brushing his skin transformed into crimped little woolen hairs that felt barbed. Tiny flexible splinters needled him and made him itch; it was like being saddled with the world's most ostentatious hairshirt. But still, being in Walter's uniform made him feel like he was occupying his lover's skin . . .. And, he smiled to himself, a little discomfort or no, it was a very nice skin indeed. 

He pulled the cap lower over his eyes, trying to look stern, and clenched his jaw in what he imagined to be a military-like fashion, working the muscle that Walter seemed to like so much. Tipping his head back so that he could just see out from under his lashes to the image in the mirror, he let his free hand wander across flesh exposed by the hanging flaps of the dress jacket. He drew his nails down quickly, savagely, across his chest, and watched dispassionately while his nipples hardened and pink welts formed.

He went hard against the inside of his leg. The coarse material dragged pleasurably across the sensitive skin. Slipping his hand inside the baggy waist of the pants, he pulled his erection free of the pants leg, to rest against his stomach. The head just cleared the waistband and he ran the flat of his palm across the engorged flesh. He shuffled closer to the mirror and tipped his head back again. 

It was good this way, watching himself through heavy lidded eyes, just able to see across his cheekbones. In the mirror, he looked as though his eyes were closed. It was like watching himself from outside of his body. 

Admiring the way his muscles moved under his skin, he roughly clutched his balls through his pants and bucked into his hand, causing himself to gasp. He held the sword upright and pressed the metal against his hot neck. Slipping his hand into the pants he began to work his cock slowly, taking his time. He dragged the edge of the sword gingerly up to his cheek, rasping it across his morning beard. He rolled the blade over to the flat side, next to corner of his mouth and shivered a little at the coldness of steel impressed upon skin. His breath fogged the filigreed metal. Watching his reflection intently now, he sped up the motion of his hand, slicking precum over his rigid penis. As he gave himself over to sensation, his jaw slackened and body swayed. Mulder tried to steady his center of gravity before stumbling backward. 

His efforts were a little too late and, off-kilter, he took a short step back. Or he would have, had he not bumped into someone standing immediately behind him. Mulder's head snapped upright and he snatched his hand away from his slick cock. Eyes wide, he stared into the mirror back into Walter Skinner's impassive face. 

"Oh Walter! You scared me!" He gave a nervous laugh but the laughter died on his lips when his lover offered no response. His brain scrambled to ascertain whether Skinner had come home early or whether time had just gotten away from him. He suspected the latter. 

He regained his composure and covered his embarrassment by turning to place a hand casually on Skinner's muscled stomach. He slouched a bit, just enough to give the impression that he needed to look up at his lover, smiling slowly. "I have a feeling that I don't do the clothes as much justice as you would."

Skinner stared down at Mulder's hand on his stomach and said nothing.

Mulder busied himself by slowly unbuttoning Skinner's finely-woven Oxford shirt. His smile widened into a grin. Only Walter S. Skinner would wear a tucked-in button-down to the office on a Sunday when no would be there to see. Skinner let his lover pull the garment from his body, leaving him standing in his white undershirt. 

God the man smelled good. Like soap. He bent his head to tug at the man's nipple with his teeth through the thin material, letting the soft fuzziness of the cotton pull the moisture from his tongue. He drew back to look at his handiwork, noting appreciatively how the wetness of his mouth made the undershirt translucent, showing off the tan-pink circle where his lover's chest was hairless. He dropped both of his hands to clasp Skinner's, and stepped backwards, pulling, directing him to the bed.

Skinner didn't budge. Only looked. 

Mulder looked surprised for a scant second but again recovered-this time impish. He drew back close to his lover's ear and murmured, gutturally, "Want to drop and go for it right here on the floor?" 

Without waiting for a response, he stood belly to belly with his older lover, running his hands over his butt. Skinner had one of those asses that made the back of his pants pull just a little too tightly against the seam, especially when he put his hands in his pockets. Mulder's throat tightened as he ran his fingertips down that seam.

He felt Skinner's hand on the back of his head and sighed. He turned his face to the older man's jaw, not kissing, just rubbing. With his lips, he brushed across the weekend beard that Skinner allowed himself. The one relaxation in this carefully maintained togetherness. He did it deliberately, knowing that the stubble would irritate his mouth, making his lips red and swollen, the way Walter liked them. Walter would sometimes stare at his mouth and, though he would never ask, beg with his eyes for Mulder to go down on him. 

Citrus fruit did it too-some sort of mild allergic reaction he guessed. A week ago when they had eaten dinner together Mulder thought that his lover was going to implode just watching him get through his fruit salad. Mulder had repented of torturing his lover by sucking him off in car on the way home.

He brought himself back around to face Skinner. He wanted his lover to see the face that was going to bring him to orgasm. He wanted him see his own desire to do so. Mulder wondered at the darkness of the man's eyes, unable to detect where pupil left off and iris began. He began a slow decent to his knees.

Skinner's hand tightened on his scalp, stopping him. The corner of Mulder's mouth twitched. 

"No? Then what?" He held his breath expectantly. His cock stirred in anticipation.

Instead of answering, Skinner placed his hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the mirror. He moved his hands to Mulder's temples, forcing his younger lover to gaze back at himself. Apparently Walter hadn't meant to interrupt. Mulder put three fingers into his own mouth and sucked softly. Pulling his soaking hand away, he trailed it down his naked chest and returned to watching his uniformed body in the mirror. Then he caught his cock up from under the fabric like he had before and groaned a bit louder than what he felt for his audience's benefit. 

Standing closer behind him than before, Skinner leaned down close to his ear and whispered so softly that Mulder felt like he was listening with every part of his body.

"You are a disgrace to your uniform, Private." 

Mulder paused. This was new. He had never been the role-playing kind but he'd never before been dressed for the part. He thought of the flight jacket still hanging in the closet down the hall. This had definite possibilities. 

Skinner drew his hands down underneath the hanging jacket, across Mulder's bare chest, and stroked him lightly with his fingertips. Mulder felt a tingle creep up his neck, the fine hair there standing on end. He stopped moving his hand across his cock and just squeezed down steadily, pressuring from all sides. He leaned back, wanting to feel the sweet hard length of cock he knew would soon be inside him. Walter pulled his hips just out of reach. Tease. 

"No dress shirt, jacket unbuttoned," Walter's fingers hesitated at the ridge the waistline and then sank in just a bit, "no skivvies."

At this Mulder sniggered. 

Skinner was in his face in an instant. Bending at the waist, hands on hips, he leaned into his face so that it was impossible to avoid eye contact. But his voice was no louder than when he first spoke. 

"Are you laughing at me, Private?" 

Mulder blinked. "Noooo," he answered slowly.

"What did you say to me, Private? If it was possible Skinner had moved even closer.

Mulder opened his mouth to speak, thought of nothing to say, and closed it again.

"Are you a fucking fish, Private? Tell me, what did you just say to your c.o.?"

"No, sir" Mulder forced out, not exactly sure what Skinner wanted.

His response seemed to be the right one, though. Skinner relaxed a bit and straightened up. He began again, low. "This isn't how a soldier holds his sword" and wrenched it from Mulder's hand and tossed it away. "And this isn't the way a soldier wears his hat." 

He punctuated the word "hat" by knocking it from his head to the ground. The motion made Mulder jump. His fingers still lay open, twitching from grasping the hilt that was no longer there. Neither of the actions hurt, exactly. He looked at his lover, searching for cues on how to react. 

"Are you eyeballing me, Private? You'd better not be eyeballing me, or you and I are going to have problems." 

Skinner pulled his hand up the inside of his lover's thigh and cupped his balls. His hand rested there, without squeezing, but firmly. Implying a threat . . . or maybe a promise. Mulder's cock stirred in response to the pressure, the warmth, and the friction. But his lover's words came from a faraway place. The voice was flat, uninvolved. 

He began to shrug off the jacket. He wanted Skinner, but obviously something else was going on here. He would put the uniform aside, make love to the beautiful, powerful man in front of him. Afterwards he would hold him in his arms and gently coax out what, exactly, was up. He spoke gently, gazing up softly at the looming man, "Walter . .."

That was as far as he got. Skinner whirled Mulder around and caught his arms together. The jacket was already half way down to his elbows and his shoulder blades were pulled painfully together. Another jerk and Mulder found himself with his face shoved against the mirror. 

"Look at yourself" he growled. 

Mulder looked. He didn't know what he was supposed to be seeing. Not that he could see much from this angle anyway. Using the length of his body, Skinner pressed his chest and stomach into the standing glass. The heat from his body made moisture condense on the surface, edging his reflection. 

Mulder inexplicably felt embarrassed. He strained to pull his face away from the glass, trying to see Skinner, trying to read what was there. He didn't know why he felt like he done something wrong, but the shame he felt was unmistakable. 

His mind fumbled for answers, coming across his own guilt first. Was it just a matter of privacy not respected? And now Skinner was administering a thinly masked lesson? Pretending not to care but trying to make a point at the same time? If so, then he was the one that deserved to be miffed. After all, Skinner had never made it clear that certain things weren't to be touched. In fact, thus far it had been me casa, su casa. 

If the study was off limits then say so. If Skinner wanted him to not touch his precious uniform, let him go put it up and be done with it. If he wanted to have some fun and let him finish what he had started, then lighten up for chrissakes. Even sub/dom play had, an element of, well, *play* to it.

He suddenly became conscious that Skinner had been muttering something into his neck all while his brain floundered. He tried to catch it. He heard the rhythm of the words before he heard their meaning. Skinner was quietly stringing together obscenities. And when the list was exhausted, he started it over. His words implied anger, but where there should have been heat, there was none. What Mulder heard instead would have made him welcome anger. At least he could recognize that emotion, if not it's cause.

Skinner's voice was toneless, sounding from somewhere distant; a place he had never been and wasn't invited. 

The curses were hotly impressed upon his neck. Traced out by Skinner's lips like some arcane language based on feeling rather than sound. He stopped trying to make sense of the words by disengaging the part of his brain that interpreted them. Concentrating their vibration instead, he indulged in the tactility of words. 

But then the cadence altered. Lengthened. So he reached out with his mind and caught not a word but a passing phrase. "Such a scared little bitch. Such a scared little bitch."

Mulder couldn't stop himself from reacting, his voice shrill, "What?! What is it?!"

With a coldness that hadn't been present even in his strictest office reprimands to the wayward agent, Skinner paused, whispering, "Clothes do not make the man, Private." 

Skinner drew up one knee between his thighs, forcing them farther apart. In defiance of his mind's indignance at his lover's behavior, he felt his body respond, buttocks pushing back into the man's groin. Groaning and again yanking back on Mulder's arms, Skinner grazed his ear with sharp, even teeth. 

Mulder did not know what Skinner meant by his words. But he was starting not to care. He was exasperated, angry, and aroused. And if he couldn't decide which one he was most, he knew that none of these emotions required the services of his rational mind. If Skinner was angling for a rough fuck, then he would give it to him. 

But even as he made the move to free himself from Skinner's grasp in order to turn and give him a lasciviously wet, open-mouthed kiss, he knew that this last thought wasn't entirely honest. Somewhere a part of him felt genuinely afraid of his unfathomably remote lover. Through the scratchy uniform trousers, he felt Skinner's thick swelling cock. But he could only register the sensation for an instant. 

Skinner hauled Mulder up by the lapels of the half-shed jacket and tossed him to the bed. For a scant moment, Mulder sat dazed, surprised by the feeling of being lifted and his toes trailing across the ground lightly. An inane thought floated across his consciousness: being lifted wasn't a feeling grown men often experienced.

But then Skinner was on him again, flipping him onto his stomach with ease, while yanking at the woolen trousers and muttering into his hair. Adept fingers dug into Mulder's waist, pushing the pants down over his hips while making no attempt to unbutton or unzip them. Mulder's fingers scrabbled against Skinner's, bunching the loose material in a tight fist, trying to prevent his lover's progress. 

He felt his wrists clutched together suddenly in one of his lover's powerful hands. They were pulled away from the waistband and simply held away from his body. Skinner did it effortlessly, making Mulder's previous exertions to interfere seem only humored. As if Walter Skinner was an adult who had temporarily allowed a child to try, letting a lesson be learned, but whose patience was now up.

Skinner reached back, bringing his muscular arm across the length of his body, to give himself the space for the force he needed. He flashed down with the back of his hand, cuffing Mulder across the side of his face. 

Mulder's head began to ring. The noise alerted him to the hurt before he actually felt it. A second later the pain came flooding in with a breathtaking sting in his left ear. The pang radiated outward and flushed down his cheek and neck. 

His mouth filled with saliva. The heat worked its way down his neck, tingling, dying out across his nipples. Maddeningly, the sensation made him recall his earlier game, standing in front of the mirror, raking his nails across his chest. The same curl of lewd pleasure twisted in his groin as before. He uttered a low, helpless moan. 

Skinner was sitting back now, crouched, on his haunches. He heard Mulder's noise. As if offering a considered reply, he pushed his glasses back with one finger and spoke plainly, in a matter-of-fact tone that sounded oddly loud after so much hushed talk. "Suck it up, Private. If you are going to dress like a man you are going to have to take it like a man."

For the second time real fear trilled down Mulder's spine. Made his heart pump faster. Set his body on edge.

The pants were halfway over his buttocks now. Abandoning his defensive measures, he swiftly pulled his knees up under his body and thrust his torso violently up and back. He threw Skinner, landing him squarely on his ass near the end of the bed. Mulder rolled swiftly to the edge of the mattress and made an effort to stand. A heavy hand encircled his ankle, hauling him back at an awkward angle. 

Mulder switched tactics. He came to his senses about trying to overpower the larger man and instead tried to work with the laws of momentum and mass. Turning in Skinner's grip, he threw his weight in the direction he was being dragged. 

They both tumbled off the end of the bed and onto the floor. Mulder found himself on top while Skinner's glasses skittered away. He tried to press his advantage by pulling himself up to sit across the man's chest but the damn buttoned pants across his thighs prevented him from doing so. Instead he thrust his hand between his exposed groin and Skinner's clothed one. Levering his body weight onto Skinner's shoulders, he lifted his hips and quickly fumbled with buckles, buttons, and zips.

Skinner lay passively, eyes closed, weakly rocking his head side to side, shaking his head "no" to something not in the room. 

Mulder pulled Skinner's dick through the fly of his white cotton briefs and stroked frenetically, carelessly. He snarled into his lover's neck, "Is this what you want?" And then, snidely, "Sir?" 

The words animated the momentarily quiescent lion. Skinner's eyes flew open. He gave one small cry as he took Mulder down, and the two wrestled in silence. They rolled across the wooden floor, upsetting a small table covered with papers. They bumped into the dresser hard enough to cause the picture frames and cologne bottles on top to topple over. Mulder pulled himself to the bedside and made one last attempt to stand by clutching at the bedspread with his free hand. 

But it was to no avail. The struggle's end was predetermined as soon as it began--the winner easily predictable. Skinner held both Mulder's wrists to the floor, crouching over him like a Greco-Roman wrestler before the start buzzer. Suspended, both men panted audibly.

Skinner leaned heavily across Mulder's back and with one hand reached out to the bedside table drawer. His middle finger grazed the knob and he strained to catch it with his short, even nails. He jerked the drawer to the floor, noisily dumping out the contents. As he pawed for the familiar dark brown bottle, his other hand loosed Mulder's wrist only to be repositioned at the nape of his agent's slim neck. He thrust his hand up into the younger man's hair and grabbed a fistful to hold him by. More secure in his control over his prey, Skinner sat back on the balls of his feet. 

Mulder listened to the movements of the man behind him while crouched on all fours. He had gotten over the prickly pain of Skinner's finger's pulling individual hairs and his scalp settled into dull aching. Now he heard nothing but the older man's ragged breathing. Numbly, he wondered what the hell Skinner could be doing. 

When Skinner loudly swore to himself, Mulder knew. He knew that the man was trying to manipulate the cap off the bottle, greasy with its contents, with little success. It always took him both thumbnails together to pry up the stubborn fliptop. He knew that Skinner's apparent unwillingness to let go of his hair promised little success for one-handed attempts.

Suddenly, Mulder felt the plastic bottle's smooth surface thump against his bared ass followed by a quick smacking sound. The black plastic cap rolled lazily into his line of sight across the floor. He was immediately surprised by a liquid coolness across the small of his back and both of his thighs. His nostrils were assaulted by the heady scent of vanilla. Against the pain of pulled hair, he craned back over his shoulder to see Skinner staring dumbly at the crushed bottle in his hand and the clear oil that coating his hand. It ran down the length of his arm, dripping fast from his elbow.

His neck ached. He turned his head forward again, listening as the vanilla oil leaked into the cleft of his ass, over the back of his balls, pattering onto the wood floor. 

His blood burned with excitement, fear. The sickeningly sweet aroma of the vanilla was making him woozy. He shifted his weight slightly from one knee to the other causing the oil slip between his cheeks. He did it again, working it. 

Without warning, his right leg was thrust out with one swift motion of his lover's knee and he felt the blunt head of Skinner's cock press threateningly against his asshole. He bowed his head and tensed, expecting to be filled without any preliminaries. And Skinner was a big man. But then--nothing. The tip remained lightly poised, like a chaste but lingering kiss. 

Perspiration beaded his forehead. One drop rolled to his hairline and then progressed down a hanging lock of hair. Still Mulder waited. The sweat bead fell. He watched the whole of its descent and its small form-shattering bounce. Enough!

Mulder's voice cut through the air. "Goddamn you! Goddamn you, Skinner, get on with it!" It was all he could get out plainly, strongly. Like he wanted to sound. His mind scurried. Not only was Skinner humiliating him, he was dragging it out. Making sure he felt every moment. 

But worse than the humiliation being inflicted on him by his lover was the humiliation that he brought on himself. Because alongside his anger there was pure wanting which seemed build with each new insult. What did it mean? He stopped the question as soon as it was formed, not wanting to know the answer. Even so, his next words were strangled with shameful need. 

"Just finish this. Just finish . . ." a sob escaped, and he tried again, "Just finish me."

Skinner jerked as though awakened from deep sleep. In the past, he had always been careful to not hurt Mulder, constantly worrying aloud throughout their lovemaking whether he was moving too fast or too hard, letting reassurances set the pace. But this was not the same man. Assistant Director Skinner was gone and in his place was a man whose own selfish desires took precedence over any other's.

Readjusting his grip in Mulder's hair, Skinner slid a wide finger in and out of his anus. Just once. He replaced his finger with his cock in one fluid motion. Mulder gasped and bucked with the strain . 

He felt himself filled as much in his chest and throat as in his ass. It felt like he was being constricted as much as stretched. Purple-black flowers bloomed in front of his eyes, obscuring daylight. But he didn't mind, the flowers were sweet . . . sweet. He numbly felt himself open his mouth and say in a voice distant and small, "ah. . . ah. . . ah.. .." The room rolled lazily to the left, like a ship afloat. He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe in through his nose. The flowers shrank back and he could see his hands in front of his face--pink beneath the nails, white at the knuckle. He wished for the dark flowers again and found when he writhed and gritted his teeth they came back, blooms dilating as big as his face. He jerked his body harder and let his neck drop to meet them, to bury his head in their soft kaleidoscoping, overlapping petals. 

Skinner leaned into the smaller man's body with his chest in an attempt to stay inside him. The oil coating most of Mulder's lower body made this no easy feat. Skinner turned his head to the side and pressed it to his lover's shoulder, letting Mulder's own erratic motions do most of the work. 

But soon desire demanded rhythm. Skinner set a brutal pace; his efforts repayed him well by honing his erection exquisitely hard. The oil, warmed with the friction, became increasingly unctuous. The bedroom walls reverberated with the sound of skin slapping against skin. 

Skinner's motion across the heavy wool between their bodies was beginning to build up an incredible burn across Mulder's back. The tepid oil continued to drizzle down his thighs. 

In the rhythm of their intercourse, Mulder's damp hair slapped against his face. He rolled his head from side to side in an attempt to work free some slack from Skinner's tight hold. 

When Mulder turned his head, his vision cleared and he caught their profiled reflection in the standing mirror across the room. "Oh God," he mouthed to himself. He was instantly transfixed. A look of dangerous desperation played across Skinner's face. He was still mostly clothed, yet his wrist-thick cock sprung from his open zipper, the entire length repeatedly taken in by Fox Mulder's ass. 

His own reflection was just as anomalous; in a coat, but no shirt, pants bunched around his calves, but no underwear, collar flipped up, the braid and rope decoration askew and swinging. But what surprised him most was the reflection of his own enpurpled erection swaying beneath him unattended. Good God, he hadn't even realized that he was hard. Not that it mattered. Skinner drove into him with so much force now that he couldn't spare his balance the free hand needed to bring himself off. 

Watching his cock bob crazily in the mirror, Mulder found the edge of his anger again. Skinner was fucking him like some prison jocker and he hadn't even the courtesy to give him a reach around.

Walter Skinner, Mulder's lover of less than one month had been so solicitous only the night before, so attentive to his body it bordered on blasphemy and now--this. Suddenly he knew why he felt so embarrassed. He felt lied to, as though all the earlier lovemaking had been so much window-dressing. It made him furious. More furious than he should have been, because . . .. Because it forced him to acknowledge that he had more invested in Walter Skinner than he wanted to admit to himself. That he couldn't walk away from this with ease like he had promised himself he could. Some part of him had secretly believed that this was it; he had finally found a man he wanted to always be with. 

But now, with Skinner's loveless heat and anger boring into him, Mulder knew he had been a fool. And Skinner had forced him to look in the mirror, to look at the stupid secret he harbored.

Foolishness was an emotion he was used to experiencing at work, one that he had grown callous to. But now, here it was again, only in a private, unexpected place. A raw and tender place. His emotions had him cornered. He wanted to inflict on Skinner the same anger and exasperation he was feeling. But he was physically outmatched. He lashed out blindly, hissing "Come on, *sir,* is that the best you can do? If the clothes *did* make the man you'd have to wear a dress." 

Skinner growled savagely and gave his lover's head a violent shake. 

Mulder only giggled, half because it would further goad his lover, half because he felt slightly insane. "Come on, harder." Payment for being a fool.

In response, Skinner drove him with thrusts that began to slide him across the hard floor, aided by the oil pooled under his knees. Mulder gritted his teeth and pushed back. Fighting him. 

Oh really?, his mind slithered. Tell the truth, you're practically gulping him up. You love this. 

Mulder mentally clamped down on the snickering in his skull. Shut up.

He struck the floor with the palm of his hand violently, his body almost buckling from this brief shift in weight alone. He rasped out, "Didn't you hear? I said, fuck me *harder*." 

After this last choked command, Skinner's rhythm broke. He managed to exhale "oh Jesus," and then he was coming. He heaved with all his weight, and both of them collapsed to the floor. He ground himself in deeper, as though he wanted to force his semen into the farthest corners of Fox Mulder's dark interior. He pulled his feet over the back of Mulder's calves and drug them down again, in a climbing motion, fighting to claim every possible inch of the younger man's body. 

Squeezing his eyes tight, Mulder opened himself to the pain. He welcomed the smart of his too ripe erection crushed between his body and the floor. It was a thrilling kind of hurt, on the crudest level satisfying his aching cock's need to be touched. But there was more to feel than just this. He gave over his awareness to the pressure of Skinner's unsupported weight squeezing the breath from his lungs, the sharp digs at his calves, the hands on his shoulder and in his hair pulling down as though trying compress him, absorb him. He wanted the pain, the possession. To be swallowed up in this larger man's body. To be subsumed. The pain afforded him a sensation that was akin to lucidity, and mentally he forced himself wider, to allow Skinner a final access to every part of him. He refused to spare himself. 

A word floated to the surface of his consciousness. A distilled wish. Please.

But when he opened his eyes again he was still here. Whole, preserved and apart.

Against the jump and jerk of Skinner's ebbing orgasm, Fox Mulder felt his throat constrict and emit a high keening.

==================================================

Skinner was unsure how long he had been lying there when he became conscious that, underneath him, Mulder was emitting a weird, pained noise, like a constant wailing without tears. He looked about him, at the mussed bed, the disordered furniture, and he tried to gather his wits. 

The first thing Walter Skinner did for the benefit of his lover since he had gotten back from work that day was to roll his two hundred and ten pound body off him. Glancing around, he found his glasses on the floor under the edge of the bed. He knelt to retrieve them while simultaneously gathering his spent, sticky cock back into his pants. 

During the brief moment it took for Skinner to do this and stand upright again, Mulder quieted and pulled himself into a sitting position against the bed. He grimaced as he pulled off the ruined pants and jacket. Testing his legs like a newborn colt, he stood gingerly, carefully keeping his back to Skinner. 

The older man winced when he saw the heat rash freckling his lover's back and the marks where the soles of his shoes had raked across his pale calves. Mulder picked up his gray tee-shirt that lay folded on a chair and wiped semen and oil from his groin, bottom, and legs. He chucked the tee-shirt in a nearby wastebasket and reached for his jeans. 

Skinner took a step toward Mulder, trying to see his face. "Fox." 

Mulder cut him off, "Don't" and he turned further away. But not before Skinner saw his lover's flagging, neglected erection disappear into his jeans with an overly rough movement. It was all too painful to watch. As Mulder reached to the chair once more for his socks and shoes, Skinner closed his eyes. 

Outside the birds chirruped and the Virginia sun shone down brightly. At this time in the afternoon, the sunlight angled in the window, striping long shadows of the blinds across the furthest wall in the bedroom.

When he opened his eyes again, his lover was gone and Walter Skinner was alone.

To be continued.


End file.
